Faithless Child
by Falco Conlon
Summary: You're faithless," Jack said listlessly. "You're drunk," Spot said in response.


Brought to you by the song _Rhyme & Reason _by the Dave Matthews Band

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"You're faithless," Jack said listlessly as he let the empty bottle of whiskey drop to the ground and rattle around his feet on the pavement. Two seconds previously he had sunk to the curb and leaned forward to let his head rest on his knees.

"You're drunk," Spot said in response, not feeling entirely sober himself. Still, Jack was much worse. It looked as though he was having trouble keeping his eyes open. An older man in a nice suit strode past them, turning his head to give the pair a disapproving look.

"Hey fuck you, mister!" Spot barked after him, tongue thick in his mouth. "What're you doing out so late, anyway! Probably on the way home from fucking a whore!" He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and grinned as the man hurried his pace. Jack burst into laughter, his back shaking. He looked ridiculous, folded over like that.

"You tell 'im, Spotty-boy." He lolled to the side so he could look up at his companion. "Faithless Spot," he said after a pause. Jack snorted, "Sounds stupid, like pirate or something. You'll need a better nickname." He seemed to have forgotten that Spot wasn't actually Conlon's given name.

"For what," Spot asked in a grumble, his smile disappearing quickly. He wasn't enjoying this whole faithless thing. Taking Jack out drinking had been a mistake. Jack had a tendency to want to talk about serious business when he was drunk.

"For the strike, you enormous asshole," Jack said as he struggled to his feet, wobbling back and forth until Spot took pity on him and set a steadying hand on his shoulder. "For the strike, something catchy for the papes. But you're faithless. Faithless and kind of bitter."

"I'm not bitter," Spot said as they started down the street. He was bitter. Bitter he hadn't thought of it, bitter he was still at the bottom of the food chain, bitter that he would actually have to agree to help Jack Kelly and his new best friend because he couldn't afford to lose any more money. He was back living in the lodging house, even though no one knew it. He came in late, after everyone was asleep, and left early, for anyone was awake.

"Fuck you, not bitter," Jack said, weaving as they tried in vain to stay out of the middle of the street. Luckily, it was two in the morning and there wasn't much traffic. "Davey says we need you, but I say bullshit. I say fuck you."

Spot glared at him and watched without humor as Jack tripped over his own feet and went tumbling. "Fuck Davey," he said as Jack rolled onto his back with a groan. "I ought to give you a beating for saying that, Kelly." But he wouldn't, because it was true. The truth was, Spot's hour was waning. He was king of the Brooklyn newsies, but what the hell did that mean anyway? He was too old for playing king of the hill.

"Come on, Spot," Jack said from his place on the cobblestone. A particularly sticky-out one was digging into his back, but he didn't have enough control over his limbs to move just yet. "Is this pride, or do you really think we don't have what it takes?"

Spot looked away from him, narrowing his eyes as though the building at the end of the street had done him some great dishonor. He folded his arms over his chest, choosing to remain silent.

"Shit," Jack said after a long moment. He had managed to get himself upright and was hanging on to Spot's pant leg to make sure he didn't fall back again. "Shit, Liam. Shit."

"Stop saying shit or I swear I will kick you in the face."

"Fine. _Damn_." Jack struggled to stand, treating Spot as a series of hand-holds, only there to assist him up. "I hit a nerve though, didn't I. Is that what this is about, pride?"

"No," Spot said, pushing him away as soon as he was on his feet. Jack stumbled, but didn't fall again. "It ain't about pride, Kelly. Just drop it, alright?"

"Naw, Liam, come on," Jack spread his hands and dropped his head to send Spot a look. Spot really wished he would stop calling him Liam. It irked him. "I was full of it before. You know we do need you. We need everyone. You're really importa-…"

"I'll fucking kill you if you finish that sentence," Spot growled, turning on his friend and pointing a warning finger in his face. "I don't need you to cushion my ego, asshole. I don't need you telling me how big and bad I am. So stuff it."

Jack put his hands up in defense, but had the wisdom to shut his mouth. There were times when Spot threatened violence and it was clear he didn't mean it. It was just his way of showing affection, in a twisted sort of way. But then there were the times when Jack could see a particular glint in the young man's eye and knew that unless he wanted a broken nose, he should change the subject. "Alright, well…you just gotta make the choice then, I guess."

"You guess," Spot rolled his eyes, but uncrossed his arms and started down the street again. He would spend the night at the Manhattan lodging house tonight. He was too drunk and tired to walk all the way back to Brooklyn. Besides, he may have secretly liked the looks he got when he was with the Manhattan newsies. However, on this particular night that thought did not make him have to hide a smile. It made him feel pathetic. "Fuckin' straight I just have to make a choice." He glared at Jack again, but only out of the corner of his eye.

Jack just sighed, but to his credit he said nothing more and the pair walked in relatively companionable silence. Spot shoved his hands in his pockets and thought about how two years ago he had assumed he would just do this for the rest of his life. Of course, two years ago he'd been fifteen and fifteen wasn't too old to be a newsie. He'd just begun to think about how the boys were looking younger and younger every day when Kelly had approached him with the idea for the strike. And what a good idea it was. Spot's lip curled in a snarl and, although he didn't let Jack know, in that moment he made a decision.

Three days later, when Brooklyn appeared on the rooftops to save the day, Jack, only just recovered from a particularly nasty two-day hangover for which he blamed Spot completely, noticed a distinct change in his old friend. Spot was no longer holding himself like he wished he was taller and scarier. Jack lifted an eyebrow as Spot landed in front of him amidst the melee and the pair shook hands. He could see that glint back in Spot's eye. He'd made his choice, it seemed. Conlon was going places.


End file.
